


burn your hands, make you understand

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M, gender-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-03
Updated: 2011-03-03
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: They've been talking about it for ages, ever since the beginning, and Arthur's always said "whenever you're ready." Eames is ready. Which, naturally, means dream sex, lady forgery, gender and pronoun play, and Arthur speechless. All in all, a pretty good birthday, if Eames does say so himself.





	

He hears Arthur come in ten minutes too early, as expected. “Close your eyes, darling,” he calls out from the kitchen. “I’ve not finished yet.”

“I told you not to do anything extravagant, Eames,” Arthur calls back, hanging his keys on the hook and his coat in the closet, the rustling a comfortable, domestic sound. “Can I at least put my work in the study?”

Eames has to think about it--no, no birthday booby traps in the study. “All right, fine, but come straight back to the living room. I’ll come and get you.” He can almost hear Arthur rolling his eyes. But it’s his birthday, and going by how well Arthur responded to just a date to the cinema, well, Eames thinks something extravagant is precisely what Arthur needs. He carries out the last of the dinner behind Arthur’s turned back, and creeps a hand round Arthur’s waist where he’s standing with his iPhone. “Happy birthday, darling.”

Arthur turns, dimples showing as he arches in for a kiss. “Thank you. Really,” he continues, putting the phone in his pocket. “My mother’s thrilled.”

Eames flushes to the tips of his ears. “Oh, er. I hope--well, good,” he stammers out, still a little surprised when Arthur brings up his mother. He knows she exists, that Arthur didn’t spring fully formed from the minds of Tom Ford and James Bond, but he can’t help thinking she’s it, she’s the sign of all the lines they’ve crossed, keep crossing, and all the reasons Eames fell in love in the first place. “I mean--I like that she knows someone is looking after you,” he continues, crooking a half-smile and brushing a thumb over Arthur’s cheek. “Now come on, food’ll go cold, and I have surprises for you later.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow but lets himself be led, loosening his tie with one hand as Eames tugs at the other. “Dinner is plenty, you know,” he says instead, dimpling again when Eames levels a stare at him. “What kind of surprise?”

“Changing tactics will not make me give it away early,” Eames replies lightly, glad Arthur’s let his moment of emotional insecurity go. He needs all of his confidence for this, for tonight, and Arthur is helping that along like a dream. “Have to get you fed, first, or then what would your mother say?” He holds out Arthur’s chair.

“Debauchery before dinner? You never know, she might approve,” Arthur says lightly, catching Eames’ mouth in another kiss, sweet and warm, before he sits down.

“I shudder to think. Wine?”

“Please.”

“And dinner,” Eames adds, serving a plate of lemon basil roast chicken with homemade tabouleh and olive salad on the side. “It’s a little experimental, and maybe a bit cool for March--I have asparagus in the fridge still, I can make--” He’s stopped by Arthur’s hand on his wrist, tugging sharply, but not unkindly.

“Sit down, Eames, I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”

I love you, Eames thinks, sitting in a sudden rush, and then, because he can, he says it out loud, getting another dimpled smile in return. “I’m glad it’s okay.”

“Eames, I can only make eggs. Of course it’s okay. Better than okay. It’s great, I mean it. Now shh, let me eat.”

“Yeah, ‘course, darling.” He knocks Arthur’s knee with his own under the table, though, and feels the steady press of Arthur’s leg in return. They eat in easy, happy quiet after that, never breaking the warm point of contact, and Eames can’t help but grin privately at the presents yet to come.

 

 

He’s laid the PASIV out on the bed, open, timer set, their two cannulae clean and connected. Arthur looks a little skeptical, but gamely unbuttons his cuffs. “You’re not going to tell me what this is about?”

Eames grins, shrugging his shoulders. “Well, you know, I made a suggestion, a while ago, and I thought it might be time to try her out.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, gaze dark and calculating. “Eames,” he says slowly. “Are--are you serous? Are you certain? Because I’m happy just being with you, you know that.”

Eames pulls him in, kisses him lightly. “Lie down, love,” he says. “I’m ready, and I know what I’m doing.”

“No you don’t, your fingers are too big, come here,” Arthur replies, but it’s a fond grumbling as he reaches for Eames’ wrist to slide the needle in. “And don’t lie on the other side of the PASIV, I want you next to me.”

“It’s your birthday,” Eames murmurs, tucking himself close to Arthur’s side.

“Yes, yes it is.” Arthur kisses him once, hard ,the only indication of how pleased he is, and presses the glowing button. “Idiot,” Eames hears, as they both fall asleep.

 

 

“Well?” Eames turns in a slow circle, dress fluttering around her legs. “What do you think?” She’s tried to recreate the lake and woods they ran by, once, in as much detail as she can remember, and she’s rather proud of herself. But Arthur seems to only have eyes for her, the set of her shoulders under a thin cotton dress, the nuances of her curves.

“Fuck, Eames,” he says finally, as she stands there barefoot in the grass. “You’re beautiful.”

“I told you I could do it,” she says, smug. “Be myself, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, but he’s reaching out for her, hand on a golden-tanned shoulder, tilting her chin up for a kiss. “You’re shorter,” he murmurs into her mouth.

“Verisimilitude,” she replies, a quiet joke between them. Arthur just hums into her mouth again, one hand sweeping through her mouse-brown hair, soft, a little fine. Verisimilitude, indeed.

“God, even the--you even kept the tattoos,” Arthur realises, breaking away to trail a mouth down her neck, tugging at the straps of her dress to access more skin. “This is unbelievable, Eames.”

She rakes her short, varnished nails through his hair. “Happy birthday, darling.”

“I love you,” Arthur says, then looks surprised, like it’s an accident.

“I know.” She looks slyly up at him. “But you could always fuck me, to prove it.”

Arthur’s response is muffled by the kiss he slants over Eames’ mouth, warm hands wrapping around her entire body, so difficult from his usual form. Eames melts into it, feeling every moment as fully as she can, the slide of Arthur’s fingers on her back, the heat of the thigh he presses between her legs, the ache that starts in the pit of her belly. She’s been a woman so many times--but never herself, never anyone real. Sharing it with Arthur--it’s what he desrves, and maybe what Eames deserves too.

He lays her out on the grass, cradling her head. “I’m not that fragile, you know,” she says, even though they both know it’s a lie.

“Shut up and let me taste you, Eames,” he replies, and Eames feels the heat bloom wider inside of her, even with the cool breeze blowing off the lake.

“Okay.” She nods, and lifts her arse, slipping plain pink knickers off, her skirt rucked up around her waist. Arthur tugs at the dress, desperate-- “I need to--just, off, Eames, I have to--” and pulls it up over her head, pushing her back until he can trace the letters of Shakespeare arching across the soft curve of her belly, first with his fingers, then with his tongue, punctuating every letter with a soft, long kiss. He presses down, sucking a kiss into the soft, smooth skin of her thigh, leaving a bruise she wishes would still be there when they wake, and finally, finally moves to settle between the juncture of her legs.

“God, you even taste--you taste the same, Eames, how do you even taste the same,” he mumbles into her, hot breath leaving her squirming.

“Might--fuck, Arthur, come on--might be you projecting,” she theorizes weakly. “Don’t know much about the science of it, really, do we?”

“Mm,” Arthur hums, buzzing into her as he licks experimentally, tracing the slick folds with just the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, fuck,” she sighs, the science gone from her mind as he presses in harder, deeper, making noises she hadn’t even known he could make until recently. It all sets that fire in her blazing, building and building within her as he presses his mouth against her, licks as far into her as he can, tasting every inch of her. He sounds like he’s starving for it, like the only thing he wants in the entire world is this, is her body and her taste and the sounds she makes as she--and then she’s coming with a shout, Arthur’s lips suckling at the nub of flesh as her hips jerk beneath him.

“You’re not going to fall asleep, are you?” Arthur asks a little hoarsely, moving his way up Eames’ body. She knees him in the ribs, laughing, and shakes her head.

“I won’t fall asleep, Arthur, of course I won’t. I’m getting better about that all the time, you know.” Another old joke between them--Eames’ seeming inability to stay awake after coming, Arthur’s fond exasperation.

“You are,” Arthur concedes lowly, nosing into the curve of her neck, breathing her in. His hands are warm and sure on her hips, just touching, no intent. Eames breathes deeply for a few moments, tracing the line of Arthur’s back through his shirt, before nudging him with a knee.

“Come on, darling. You can’t possibly be done. I have two hours left in this body, make the most of them.”

Arthur’s eyes grow dark, hands gaining intent on Eames’ hips, tracing the dark lines. “You’re sure you’re ready?”

Eames arches an eyebrow. “I won’t break, Arthur. I want you inside of me.”

“Far be it from me to deny you,” Arthur murmurs, still fully clothed, although a little flushed. Her hands scrabble for his buttons, tearing the shirt, though with a fraction of his usual strength. She runs her hands over every inch of skin she can reach, cataloguing the difference between touching him with these fingers, smaller, softer. Arthur shivers when she brushes over his nipple and she circles it with her thumb, feeling the way it peaks and dimples under the lightest attention. He fumbles with his belt, swearing, but finally he’s naked, and she’s opening, and he kisses her gently as he slides in, groaning into her mouth. “For--god, Eames, I can’t--can’t believe you,” Arthur pants, still as marble in Eames’ arms, looking over her skin, her body, the place where they meet. Eames just runs a hand over his face and lifts his chin for a kiss, rolling her hips into his, stoking the heat inside her a second time.

He lifts her up until they’re both sitting upright, his arms tight around her back, his head bowed into her shoulder. They come together again and again, breath loud in the warm, quiet air, until they’re both gasping with it, clutching tight to one another, bodies rolling rhythmically.

“Arthur,” she murmurs, only to be hushed by the slant of his mouth.

“I know, Eames,” he says, moving harder, faster, movement as uncoordinated as Eames has ever seen him before. “I love you,” he says into her ear, deliberate this time, carefully chosen.

“Happy birthday, love,” she replies, and clenches tight the muscles beginning to contract around him. “Happy--ah--birthday.”

And then she’s coming again, riding the crest of pleasure as he follows, sinking his teeth into the skin of her shoulder, where the Knave of Hearts still winks cheekily. It’s glorious, unbelievable--Eames is high on the buzzing sensation of it, crying out in a voice she almost doesn’t recognize is hers.

“Thank you,” he mumbles into her ear, as they’re dozing in the grass.

“Least I could do,” Eames replies, although they both know she means much, much more.

 

 

There’s champagne for when they wake up, Eames readjusting to the weight and heft of his own body. Arthur seems to be adjusting back, too, holding tight to any part of Eames he can reach, anchoring himself in reality. They toast, and laugh, and Arthur lets Eames kiss a dimple, tonguing the dip, wiping his cheek after himself. Eames unveils the cake, the cufflinks, the cockring, grinning and gleeful to be spoiling Arthur so unabashedly. And when they’re full, and exhausted, and Arthur gets that look in his eye like he has plans, Eames just holds out a hand and tugs him back up the stairs, fumbling his shirt one-handed as he goes.

The painting he’s just finished can wait until tomorrow, he thinks, and kisses Arthur senseless.


End file.
